Here Pause: The Poet Claims At Least This Praise
HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount 'duty' that Heaven lays,
For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.
Never may from our souls one truth depart--
That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor--touched with due abhorrence of 'their' guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity--
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Look Now On That Adventurer Who Hath Paid
LOOK now on that Adventurer who hath paid
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
By the blind Goddess,--ruthless, undismayed;
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are 'his' dire portion, scorn, and hate,
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate
By violent and ignominious death.
poem by William Wordsworth
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I Hope You're Happy
I hope you're happy.
I hope you don't give it a second thought.
I hope you're happy but that's not enough.
I hope your miserble in that grave you dug.
I hope it's me you're thinking of when you choke on your tears.
I hope you waste the years with someone untrue.
I hope the words you said come back to haunt you.
The mistake you made, I hope it drives you insane.
I hope it hurts you to say my name.
If you're lonely you've got no one to blame but yourself.
So I hope your happy with somebody else.
I hope you're doing alright.
I hope it's guilt that keeps you up at night
I hope it eats you away.
I hope you regret every single day spent without me.
I hope it kills you to hear the truth spoken loudly.
I hope you have fun pretending to care about her.
I hope you believe that you can't live without her.
I hope you're happy.
I hope you don't fall apart.
I hope you're happy.
I hope she breaks your worthless heart.
poem by Samantha Ashley
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In His Hands
My soul is in the hands of God, not earthly men on earthly sod,
I have been bought by His Son, through the blood of only One.
In the Son alone, I take my stand, securely in the Father’s Hand.
A life in Heaven, I’m assured, not through religion, but my Lord.
And when I pray, I pray to Him, not to another one also with sin,
For I have access to His Throne, and He calls me His very own.
Religion is not what I profess, and to a priest, I do not confess,
As I have a Priest high above, who died for me, moved by love.
Religion did not save my soul, for it was Christ, who died for all,
All religions were diminished, when The Son said “It is Finished”.
Now all the work has been done, upon the cross by God’s Son.
I do not give mere men praise, as the Cross of Christ I will raise.
Only by Grace I’ve been saved, from a heart that’s so depraved,
Through this Grace I received, it was God’s Truth that I believed.
Saving Truth that sets men free, a Truth that flows from Calvary,
Freed of man’s religious rules, which only create religious fools.
I only have one Father in Heaven; all others are Spiritual Leaven,
Part of the coming apostasy, built through eyes that cannot see.
With Christ there’s no uncertainty, regarding my place in Eternity,
For the moment I leave this place, I shall be greeted by His face.
Through my journey in this life, I fix my eyes upon Jesus Christ,
Who opened them and my heart, with a Hope for when I depart.
A Hope, not on religious emptiness, but on His Righteousness,
Righteousness from God above, to save me by a Savior’s love.
(10/2007)
Lines Addressed To Dr. Darwin, Author Of The 'Botanic Garden.
Two Poets, (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree,)
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court!
Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge a poet's worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own.
We therefore pleased extol thy song,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise;
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,
They would -- they must at thine.
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye;
And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own.
poem by William Cowper
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Don't give up hope
Don't give up hope
Don't give up hope
There is still a whole slew of scope in hope
I know how you feel
Your predicament is unpleasant and real
Before you crumble and stumble
Like a lone wolf in your solitary struggles
I hear the sadness in your tongue
Realize that your suffering will pass
Its duration may be long
Hang in there, be strong
I know the words to your plightful song
You are not where you wish to belong
But giving up hope is forever wrong
A flower never fumbles and gives up hope
While waiting for its daily water
Hope is all to it that matters
Don't give up hope
Don't give up hope
Clutch on tight to all ropes
There is still a whole slew of scope in hope
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Damned
My days are haunted by the thought
Of men in coils of Justice caught
With stone and steel, in chain and cell,
Of men condemned to living hell,--
Yet blame them not.
In my sun-joy their dark I see:
For what they are and had to be
Blame Nature, red in tooth and claw,
Blame laws beyond all human law,
--Blame Destiny.
Behind blind walls I see them go,
Grim spectres of eternal woe,
Drained grey of hope, dead souls of self-slain,--
And yet I know with pang of pain
It must be so.
I know that brother's blood they've spilt,
And sons of Cain must pay their guilt;
I know the deviltries that stem
From dark abyss we must condemn;
I know that but for heaven's grace
We might be rotting in their place:
--God pity them!
poem by Robert William Service
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On The Slaughter
Heaven, beg mercy for me! If there is
a God in you, a pathway through
you to this God - which I have not
discovered - then pray for me! For my
heart is dead, no longer is there prayer
on my lips; all strength is gone, and
hope is no more. Until when, how
much longer, until when?
You, executioner! Here's my neck - go
to it, slaughter me! Behead me like a
dog, yours is the almighty arm and the
axe, and the whole earth is my scaffold
- and we, we are the few! My blood is
fair game - strike the skull, and
murder's blood, the blood of nurslings
and old men, will spurt onto your
clothes and will never, never be wiped
off.
And if there is justice - let it show
itself at once! But if justice show itself
after I have been blotted out from
beneath the skies - let its throne be
hurled down forever! Let heaven rot
with eternal evil! And you, the arrogant,
go in this violence of yours, live by
your bloodshed and be cleansed by it.
And cursed be the man who says:
Avenge! No such revenge - revenge for
the blood of a little child - has yet been
devised by Satan. Let the blood pierce
through the abyss! Let the blood seep
down into the depths of darkness, and
eat away there, in the dark, and breach
all the rotting foundations of the earth.
poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
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When It's Over
When you look into his eyes
It comes to you as no surprise
It's always the same
Every time he's out with you
He tries to tell you what to do
You don't need it that way
Sometimes you think you're playing the fool
He's running around breaking all the rules
Somehow that don't seem fair
There's got to be a better way
You know what I'm trying to say
'Cause deep, deep down inside
You're living in a life in total lies
What did he ever do for you
What's he trying to put you through
I just don't understand
You showed him love and tenderness
Touched him with your sweet caress
Now he's leaving you
So what's the point in working it out
Tell me what it's all about
That's why I'm saying
I hope you're with me
I hope you're with me when it's over
I hope you're with me
I hope you're with me when it's over
You won't be lonely
You won't be lonely when it's over
You won't be lonely (you)
When it's over
It's over, it's over, it's over
It's over, it's over, it's over
And in the morning when he's gone
Please don't sing that sad, sad song
I don't want to hear it
Forget about him
Let him go
It won't hurt what he don't know
What's he trying to say to you
What's he trying to tell you
He don't really care
Face the truth and realize
You don't need his alibi's
No more
I hope you're with me
I hope you're with me when it's over
I hope you're with me
I hope you're with me when it's over
You won't be lonely
Y
song performed by by Loverboy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Hope She Knows
i hop she knows who she is to me,
i hope she knows when i look at her true beauty is what i see
i hope she knows i see her like no one else
i hope she knows when she smiles it just makes my heart melt
i hope she knows shes not just anybody, not just some girl
shes mine,
i have loved her all this time
i hope she knows she sweetens my breathe
without her air it would bring death
i hope she knows that in my eyes
shes the brightest light, the shine of the moon in the essence of the night
the beauty of the waters on the shore, without her love i would be no more,
i hope she knows i love her the way she is
i hope she knows when shes gone shes all i miss
i hope she knows that all i have to say and all i feel
that the love for her could never be so real
i hope she knows shes the life of my life
the heart of my heart, the day of my day
and no matter how long i will forever feel this way
and this moment that im looking at her, that im looking at the most amazing thing i will ever see
her,
i hope she knows without the gaze of her eyes, i would be blind all my life
but at this moment,
i hope she knows
that i love her.
poem by Richard Ferdin
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On The Death Of Pushkin
He fell, a slave of tinsel-honour,
A sacrifice to slander's lust;
The haughty Poet's head, the noblest,
Bowed on his wounded breast in dust.
No longer could his free soul suffer
The vulgar world's low infamy;
He rose against the world's opinion,
And as a hero, lone fell he.
He fell! To what avail the sobbing--
The useless choir of tears and praise?
Wretched the stammering excuses!
The Fates have spoke,--no power allays!
Have ye not at all times together
His sacred genius baited sore,
The silent fury fanned to flaming,
Delighted in your work before?
O be triumphant! Earthly torment
The Poet soul did fully bear,
Extinguished are the lights inspired,
The laurel crown lies leafless there!
The murderer contemptuous gazing
Did stedfastly his weapon aim,
No swifter beat his heart, Assassin!
Nor shook his lifted hand for shame.
No wonder; from a distance came he
As an adventurer unknown,
For worthy title, star of order--
Stood but his mad desire alone.
Sneering and self-complacent mocked he
The rights and customs of our land,
He could not understand our glory,
Against which he has raised his hand.
'Hence is he, hence! His song out-rung,
The Singer even as the song he sung;
Who of a hot, heroic mood,
In death disgraceful shed his blood!'
Why did he leave his home life tranquil,
To seek the envious market place,
Where each free flame is suffocated,
Expose him to the assassin base?
The human breed, who had known better
Since earliest years of youth, than he--
Why did he trust the false pretending
Of malice and hypocrisy?
Ah, of his laurel wreath you robbed him,
Gave him a martyr's crown instead,
And now the cruel thorns have pierced him
E'en to the blood of his proud head!
His last days were for him envenomed--
Through senseless fools' contempt aggrieved,
He died revenge a'thirst, accusing
That every hope his heart deceived!
Mute evermore the magic echoes,
That ne'er shall wonders more reveal,
The Poet's home is dark and narrow--
Upon the Singer's lips a seal.
But ye, sons insolent and shameless--
Defamers, faithless fathers, ye!
Who trod the pure soul of another
Beneath your feet, who zealously
Press to the Tsar's throne with your driveling
For fame and freedom, hatred steeled!
Well may you sneer at truth and justice,
The law provides you screen and shield,
Only a higher law shall sentence!
A mighty Judge beyond assail
Avenge the Poet's death on his slayers,
The Highest Judge who does not fail!
So then calumniate with brazen courage,
Your hatred's fury nought restrains--
Since your dark blood could ne'er atone for
One drop within the Poet's pure veins.
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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To The Right Honble. The Lady Dowager Torrington,
When you command, the Muse obeys,
Proud to present her humble Lays.
Of writing I'll no more repent,
Nor think my Time unwisely spent;
If Verse the Happiness procures
Of pleasing such a Soul as yours.
Endless Anxiety, I find,
Hath dire Effects upon the Mind:
A Life of unsuccessful Care
Too often sinks us to Despair.
From such a Life as this, I chuse
To snatch some Moments for the Muse;
To slight Mortality, and soar
To Worlds where Anguish is no more;
Forget Ierne's wretched State,
Tho' doom'd to share her cruel Fate;
Destin'd to pass my joyless Days,
Where Poverty, relentless, preys;
And form'd, unhappily, to grieve
For Miseries I can't relieve.
From giving Wealth my Hands are ty'd;
That great Felicity's deny'd.
Yet have I sometimes the Delight,
To help a Wretch by what I write;
To make some happier Bosoms melt;
And heal the Woes they never felt.
To Torrington, whose gen'rous Breast
Delights in raising the Diftress'd,
Adding new Honour to her Blood,
By all the Ways of doing Good,
How needless is the Poet's Art;
Since He, that made, enlarg'd her Heart?
poem by Mary Barber
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Sonnet XXVI: I Ever Love
To Despair
I ever love where never hope appears,
Yet hope draws on my never-hoping care,
And my life's hope would die, but for despair;
My never-certain joy breeds ever-certain fears;
Uncertain dread gives wings unto my hope,
Yet my hope's wings are laden so with fear
As they cannot ascend to my hope's sphere;
Though fear gives them more than a heav'nly scope,
Yet this large room is bounded with despair;
So my love is still fetter'd with vain hope,
And liberty deprives him of his scope,
And thus am I imprison'd in the air.
Then, sweet despair, awhile hold up thy head,
Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.
poem by Michael Drayton
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To Charles Parnell
ONE thing we praise you for that is past praise —
The dauntless eyes that faced the rain and night,
The hand that never wearied in the fight,
Till, through the dark's despair, the dawn's delays,
It rose, that vision of forgotten days,
Ireland, a Nation in her right and might,
As fearless of the lightning as the Light, —
Freedom, the noon-tide sun that shines and stays!
O brave, O pure, O hater of the wrong,
(The wrong that is as one with England's name,
Tyranny with cant of liberty, and shame
With boast of righteousness), to you belong
Trust for the hate that blinds our foes like flame,
Love for the hope that makes our hearts so strong!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Tis Gone, And For Ever
'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead --
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning,
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her letters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then -- had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations -- how sweet had ascended
The first note of liberty , Erin, from thee!
But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptised it in blood.
Then vanish'd for ever that fair sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Aging Poet
Come and see the old poet
Laying in his bed of ashes and dust
His love in ruins
His mentality frozen by restless rust
His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood
His souls melodic purpose nearly gone
The mellifluous music now so silent
The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song.
What happened to this poet
With dread you may ask,
The ancient story ofcourse
The evils of age and wear, and so damned many things out there
Working at his heart, fulfilling their wretched task.
When poets speak truth and beauty into this old world
Any breath may be their last
For so many evil spirits will stalk them
With an endless passion to haunt, from the past
The deepest hearts, so oft, become weary and tossed
As all about them seems dreadfully lost
And everything fearful and frustrating and unknown
Becomes thriving weeds where once, long ago
With such ease a radiant, eloquent garden had grown.
Still this old poet wrote
For was his vocation so to do
Even through the battles with doubt
He held on, ever true
Words from his heart
He rended to give
The conundrum being
It cost him his life, to fully live...
So look! Look deep
Here lays the old poet - in state
Having succumbed - like all the living shall
To mankinds unavoidable fate.
May all the aging poets forever
Rest in peace, and ever be blest
For the sempiternal words they lay upon us
- dug with pain from the depths of their souls
Are nothing less than the very best.
(for: Townes Van Zandt)
poem by Smoky Hoss
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A Song of the English
Fair is our lot -- O goodly is our heritage!
(Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
For the Lord our God Most High
He hath made the deep as dry,
He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!
Yea, though we sinned -- and our rulers went from righteousness --
Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.
Oh be ye not dismayed,
Though we stumbled and we strayed,
We were led by evil counsellors -- the Lord shall deal with them!
Hold ye the Faith -- the Faith our Fathers seal]\ed us;
Whoring not with visions -- overwise and overstale.
Except ye pay the Lord
Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!
Keep ye the Law -- be swift in all obedience --
Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
Make ye sure to each his own
That he reap where he hath sown;
By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!
. . . . .
Hear now a song -- a song of broken interludes --
A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
Through the naked words and mean
May ye see the truth between
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Song of the English
Fair is our lot -- O goodly is our heritage!
(Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
For the Lord our God Most High
He hath made the deep as dry,
He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!
Yea, though we sinned -- and our rulers went from righteousness --
Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.
Oh be ye not dismayed,
Though we stumbled and we strayed,
We were led by evil counsellors -- the Lord shall deal with them!
Hold ye the Faith -- the Faith our Fathers seal]\ed us;
Whoring not with visions -- overwise and overstale.
Except ye pay the Lord
Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!
Keep ye the Law -- be swift in all obedience --
Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
Make ye sure to each his own
That he reap where he hath sown;
By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!
. . . . .
Hear now a song -- a song of broken interludes --
A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
Through the naked words and mean
May ye see the truth between
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Thanks And Praise
We lift to God thanks and praise, for His care over all our days,
Even when the times get tough, God surrounds us, in His Love,
Love that’s of an eternal scope, which gives to us eternal hope,
The hope one finds in Jesus Christ, as we walk through this life.
All our praise is due to Him, Who not only saved us from all sin,
But, our Lord God imputed to us, Jesus Christ’s Righteousness,
A righteousness not of our own, for it was sent from His Throne,
Where we are seated with Christ, Hope we have, while in this life.
Here He sustains us in His Love, which comes down from above,
While God’s Everlasting Arms, protects us from all undue harms,
Providing us with comfort too, comforts which each day are new,
For God’s compassion never fails, while in our life, God prevails.
His Love is beyond our reason, and for all time not just a season,
As God’s Love is eternal friend, and such a love will have no end,
A love that begins upon this earth, and long before our New Birth,
Being created in the image of, the One who saved us by His love.
That love and much, much more, is what Believers thank God for,
And while His Love helps us cope, we have in God a larger Hope,
A hope that is beyond this place, hope granted to us all by grace,
Our hope of New Life, eternally, that only those in Christ shall see.
(Copyright ©11/2011)
Always Suffering
Let's take a walk
Just you and me
And talk of days gone by
Across the fields
Under the trees
Let's speak of you and I
While the whole world
Was wandering
We walked a steady line
When all our friends
Were wavering
We kept on trying
Now we're always suffering
Already lost
Always suffering
Already lost
Remember when
On summer days
I would sing a lovers son
How you would smile
Shower me with praise
And the sun shined on
Now the rain is falling slow
And the nights grow long
And the train
Cries out so hauntingly
She is gone
Now we're always suffering
Already lost
We're always suffering
Already lost
Please take these flowers
Smell the perfume
Let your soul come alive
Let there be hope
Hope in your heart
That our love may revive
For life is but a chance
On a wind swept hill
And the seeds of love
Are swirling above
Let them be still
But we're always suffering
We're already lost
Always suffering
Already lost
song performed by by Rolling Stones from Bridges To Babylon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Reward
Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime,
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time?
And, through the shade
Of funeral cypress planted thick behind,
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind
From his loved dead?
Who bears no trace of passion's evil force?
Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Remorse?
Who does not cast
On the thronged pages of his memory's book,
At times, a sad and half-reluctant look,
Regretful of the past?
Alas! the evil which we fain would shun
We do, and leave the wished-for good undone
Our strength to-day
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall;
Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all
Are we alway.
Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years,
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears,
If he hath been
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was,
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause,
His fellow-men?
If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin;
If he hath lent
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need,
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed
Or home, hath bent;
He has not lived in vain, and while he gives
The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives,
With thankful heart;
He gazes backward, and with hope before,
Knowing that from his works he nevermore
Can henceforth part.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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